The Marrakesh Express

My buddy Hillel's brother, Efrem Bromberg, is taking some time off between jobs. Lucky man's in Marrakesh!

None of my pre-travel reading prepared me for the heart of the Marrakesh Medina (old  city). It is a circus - a nightly spontaneous theatre of snake charmers, trained monkeys, musicians, storytellers and Moroccan clowns.

Stalls are packed with every food you could want and plenty you don't want. Figs, dates, every kind of dried fruit and nut, fresh fruit juices, snails, turtles, bite sized pastries, candies, cactus fruits, pressed sugar cane juice... everything. (The snails are boiled fresh on the cart. I have no idea what they do with the turtles.) Moroccan families sit at long tables around a tented makeshift kitchen cooking-up Moroccan favorites: cous cous, tajine, sausages (best not to ask what's inside). Horns and stringed instruments blare, donkey carts amble and from everywhere motor scooters zoom right past pedestrians, diners and performers. "Unregulated" does not begin to describe this town. The streets are full of men selling wind-up toys, "Rolex" watches, jewelery, cell phones, even plumbing  fixtures. And, of course, there are many beggars and many, many cats.

Mostly Moroccans go to the square after sunset but there are plenty of Europeans too—this is Europe's Disneyland but without the free parking. And restrooms are harder to come by.

Marrakesh is an Indiana Jones acid trip; high energy, swirling, spinning motion, awesome colors. I have become part of the non-stop motion because if I stop, even for an instant, I will be invited into someone's cousin's godfather's, best friend's carpet shop in the massive, maze called a souq. I've seen the souq in big cities like Istanbul and Jerusalem. But nothing compares to Marrakesh. There are tanneries right there... in the souq!

Teams of tanners prepare donkey, sheep, cow and camel hides. The hides are soaked for one month in ammonia. And then another month in pigeon poop. Really. Pigeon poop. Then the fur is scraped from the hides and turned into rugs. The hides are turned into Moroccan slippers. And ottoman-like seats called "poufs". And how have I become a maven on Moroccan leather goods? Today, I held still for one instant when I happened to meet my new best friend, Mohammad. "You are lost? Come! I show you main square. You American? Yes? Obama? Obama is good! I show you. We are brothers. Come." By a crazy coincidence, we happened upon a man who gave tours of the leather works. He hands me a bouquet of mint to smell to cover the awful odor of the tannery. And who would have guessed? My tour guide had a friend who sold leather goods in his shop. I did not wake up this morning thinking I would buy a pouf. But trust me, it'll look great in the living room. And I drove a hard bargain. I think.

This crazy party goes on until midnight. Every night. It's been this way for a thousand years. I'm pretty sure Roman centurions brought poufs home. And the Turks, too. I reckon that's why they're called "ottomans."

Marrakesh Express—Crosby, Stills and Nash